Lessons from Great Expectations

"Now, I return to this young fellow.  And the communication I have to to make is, that he has Great Expectations...I am instructed to communicate to him...that he will come into a handsome property.  Further, that it is the desire of the present possessor of that property, that he be immediately removed from his present sphere of life and from this place, and be brought up as a gentleman--in a word, as a young fellow of great expectations."

Charles Dickens' novel, Great Expectations, is the coming-of-age story of protagonist Philip Pirrip, or "Pip."  It is Dickens' penultimate novel, published serially from 1860-1861.  The narration is first person point of view--Dickens' only second book to be written so.

Pip is an orphan who is begrudgingly raised by his belligerent  older sister (Mrs. Joe) and her quiet, humble husband Joe, who is a blacksmith.  Pip's future seems quite obvious: he will work in the forge with Joe, initially as an apprentice and perhaps in time, as a partner.

Then, as ofttimes happens in life, everything changes with one pivotal event.

That was a memorable day for me, for it made great changes in me.  But it is the same with any life.  Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been.  Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.

Pip's memorable day is when he is invited to visit Satis House, the affluent home of eccentric, heartbroken Miss Havisham.  The word "satis" comes from Latin and means "enough."  Pip is introduced to a social status he has never encountered before.  He also meets Havisham's adopted daughter, the stunningly beautiful Estella.  Pip is instantly captivated by her and simultaneously crestfallen by the realization that he is not "enough" for her.  He is just a coarse boy whom she mocks.

As his visits to Miss Havisham become regular, Pip hopes that she will employ her wealth to make him a gentleman, that he will be destined for Estella.  As these longings take root in his heart, his former path of labor in the forge becomes despicable.  When Joe--kind-hearted Joe who has taken care of Pip and loves him as a son--meets Miss Havisham, Pip is overcome with embarrassment on account of Joe's unpolished social skills and irregular dress.  

Pip's ambitions for his life have changed and the temptation for something better darkens what was once perceived to be a happy future.  For Pip, there is no contentment as he perceives the rungs of the social ladder and contemplates his lowly status.  

...I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge, was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me, like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again.  Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often, before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out.

Then, abruptly and unexpectedly, Pip's fortune changes--literally and figuratively.  He is informed by a lawyer that a benefactor (who wishes to remain nameless for the time being) has elected to endow Pip with a substantial sum of money, with the intent of making him a gentleman.  Pip has received his "great expectations." 

He prepares to move for London.  Already, in his mind, Pip is now delineated from Joe and his kind-hearted friend Biddy.  With his wealth, Pip has reached a new social strata.  And, while Pip is anxious to begin the life he has longed for--the life of a gentleman--he is surprised to find that the first night of his great expectations is also the loneliest.  

Pip relocates to the city, but again, it isn't exactly what he anticipated.  

We spent as much money as we could, and got as little for it as people could make up their mind to give us.  We were always more or less miserable, and most of our acquaintance were in the same condition.  There was a gay fiction among us that we were constantly enjoying ourselves, and a skeleton truth that we never did.  To the best of my belief, our case was in the last aspect a rather common one.

Often, in spite of his superior social ranking and affluence, Pip longs for the kitchen fire at home.

Pip operates under the understanding that Miss Havisham is his anonymous donor.  But in a stunning revelation, Pip learns that his great benefactor is no lofty social figure, member of an admired family, or respected leader.  Instead, it is a convict named Magwitch whom young Pip had (reluctantly) helped escape many years ago.  The convict was grateful for the kindness extended to him.  He remembered Pip and, though an outlaw removed from society, Magwitch sought to prove his worth by fashioning his own gentleman.  

"Yes, Pip, dear boy, I've made a gentleman on you!  It's me wot has done it!  I swore that time, sure as ever I earned a guinea, that guinea should go to you.  I swore arterwards, sure as ever I spec'lated and got rich, you should get rich.  I lived rough, that you should live smooth; I worked hard that you should be above work.  What odds, dear boy?  Do I tell it fur you to feel a obligation?  Not a bit.  I tell it, fur you to know as that there hunted dunghill dog wot you kep life in, got his head so high that he could make a gentleman--and, Pip, you're him!" 

Pip believed himself above his humble beginnings.  Yet, it was someone even less refined and more an outcast who made him a gentleman.  Nothing was as he expected at all: the experience of being rich, the identity of his benefactor, the source of happiness and contentment.  

Magwitch, in endowing Pip with so much money, enabled the young man to leave a course already chartered for him.  That seems like something positive, but...what if the life already planned for him was a good one?  Maybe, even, a better one?

Magwitch, in many ways, used Pip to achieve dreams that were out of Magwitch's reach.  The convict himself could never become a true gentleman; the next best thing was to make one of someone else.  Magwitch, in other words, was striving to live vicariously through Pip.  

A parallel dynamic occurs between Miss Havisham and Estella.

Miss Havisham, with quite different motivations, was doing the same with her adopted daughter, Estella.  Left heartbroken at the altar, Miss Havisham lives with constant anguish and regret: she still wears her withered wedding gown and her untouched wedding cake rots on the table in her room.  Driven by this bitterness, Miss Havisham rears Estella as the vehicle for enacting revenge on the male race.  Estella, therefore, is not taught affection or love.  She is taught to entice, captivate, and coldly break hearts.

"It seems," said Estella, very calmly, "that there are sentiments, fancies--I don't know how to call them--which I am not able to comprehend.  When you say you love me, I know what you mean, as a form of words; but nothing more.  You address nothing in my breast, you touch nothing there.  I don't care for what you say at all.  I have tried to warn you of this; now, have I not?" 

Magwitch and Miss Havisham take the experiences and pains of their lives and project them onto their adopted children.  Rejected by society, Magwitch wants to elevate Pip to the upper social class.  Heartbroken by a man, Miss Havisham guides Estella to emotionally ravage men.  

But what these two forget is that Pip and Estella are their own people, with their own personalities, futures, dreams, and vocations.

When Pip is removed from the home he has known, with the good people who have reared him and taught him, Pip is thrust into another world--a world that is not exactly beneficial for him.  Pip often reflects that he has not actually accomplished anything as a gentleman.  He also incurs debt, thus ultimately possessing less money than before his expectations.  

Had Pip been left alone at the forge, while he would have yearned for Estella and high society for awhile, in time he would have accepted his place and been happy for it.  But instead, someone else's expectations disturbed and disrupted the path set before Pip.

Pip and Estella follow different, yet parallel, paths of internalizing their own personal desires.  Through the suffering that accompanies living another's desires and ambitions, both begin to see their true way in life.  

In time, Pip comes to see that his humble home at the forge is not a place to disparage, but a treasure to cherish.  And the gentleman he hopes to aspire to is not to be found in London, but in the unassuming Joe whose kindness is unwavering.  Here indeed is a gentle man.

I had not been mistaken in my fancy that there was a simple dignity in him.  The fashion of his dress could no more come in its way when he spoke these words, than it could come in its way in Heaven.

Pip's transformation and change through the novel is beautiful.  His self-realization as he perceives his faults is profound, while his efforts to correct his shortcomings impressive.  Narrated in first-person, the reader comes to know Pip and his feelings so intimately. Dickens has crafted an outstanding book.

As a parent, it is a reminder that my children are not me.  They have their own unique interests and talents.  The struggles I had had may not be theirs.  The dreams I have dreamt may not be theirs.  And for me to project my life's experiences onto them and their wide, open futures may hamper and destroy what will ultimately bring them the greatest joy: living God's will for their lives, not mine.

Lessons from A Little Princess

"It had been hard to be a princess today, Melchisedec," she said.  "It has been harder than usual.  It gets harder as the weather grows colder and the streets get more sloppy.  When Lavinia laughed at my muddy skirt as I passed her in the hall, I thought of something to say all in a flash--and I only just stopped myself in time.  You can't sneer back at people like that--if you are a princess.  But you have to bite your tongue to hold yourself in."

Sara Crewe, protagonist of Frances Hodson Burnett's A Little Princess, seemed to be living a royal life.  Though her mother had died when Sara was quite young, she was raised by an adoring father who lavished her with attention, affection, and gifts.  Money was not lacking, so Sara wore the finest of clothing and played with the most exquisite dolls--dolls who had their own luxurious wardrobe. 

Captain Crewe, who is stationed in India, decides to enroll Sara in a private boarding school in London, run by Miss Minchin.  Sara enjoys special privileges there, such as her own room and maid, as well as a carriage and pony.

Yet, despite this finery, Sara remains a humble, generous, and kind girl.  She seeks out the chubby, slow-witted Ermengarde as a friend and becomes an adoptive "mother" to Lottie, the little girl who throws tantrums.  Sara also finds ways to comfort and help the serving maid, Becky.

Sara speculates about her position in life, realizing that she has been blessed.  It is easy to be kind when life is easy; how do we act when our comforts are removed?  It is not as though we are entitled to a hot shower, a car with no dead battery, or short lines in the grocery store.  

"Things happen to people by accident," she used to say.  "A lot of nice accidents have happened to me.  It just happened that I always liked lessons and books, and could remember things when I learned them.  It just happened that I was born with a father who was beautiful and nice and clever, and could give me everything I liked.  Perhaps I have not really a good temper at all, but if you have everything you want and everyone is kind to you, how can you help but be good-tempered?"

Then, abruptly, Sara's comforts are completely gone.  Her father dies.  Her fortune disappears.  She is penniless and alone, without any family at all.  From princess to pauper, Sara moves to the attic with Becky and toils long hours for Miss Minchin, cleaning, tutoring, and running errands through the sludge and cold of the London streets.

Sara is stripped of everything she had, but there is one gift left that even poverty and the abuse she receives from Miss Minchin cannot take away: her imagination.

Sara is gifted with an incredible ability to create stories that become as real and vivid as reality.  Before her father's death, she would captivate the other students with her tales.  

When she sat or stood in the midst of a circle and began to invent wonderful things, her green eyes grew big and shining, her cheeks flushed, and, without knowing that she was doing it, she began to act and made what she told lovely or alarming by the raising or dropping of her voice, the bend and sway of her slim body, and the dramatic movement of her hands.

Thus her bare attic room with the broken fireplace, threadbare blanket, and single window becomes her cell in the Bastille and she communicates with the other "prisoner" (Becky) through secret knocks.  Sara imagines herself a solider, who must march on through battle, despite thirstiness, wounds, or hunger.

She stares at the large family who lives nearby, brothers and sisters who have a loving father and mother.  Sara gives them pretend names and feels affection for them, though she has never met them.  

Most importantly, it is her imagination that allows her to maintain her spirit of kindliness and generosity.  For though she is penniless, Sara can still remain a princess  in her actions.  

"Whatever comes," she said, " cannot alter one thing.  If I am a princess in rags and tatters, I can be a princess inside.  It would be easy to be a princess if I were dressed in cloth of gold , but it is a great deal more of a triumph to be one all the time when no one knows it." 

And that is how she conducts herself through her suffering: as a princess in disguise.  When she faces Miss Minchin's irrational wrath or scolding from the staff, Sara remains silent, fighting back her words to maintain a composure fitting royalty.  For, as she explains, the only thing stronger than rage is being able to hold it in.

Imagination allows Sara to find joys in the small things, just as much as she had in her wealth before.  It helps her give, even when the cost is great.  On one occasion, Sara, completely famished, finds a sixpence in the muddy streets and buys six fresh buns from the bakery.  She spies another young girl, more destitute and starving than herself, huddled in the street.  

"If I'm a princess," she was saying, "if I'm a princess--when they were poor and driven from their thrones--they always shared--with the populace--if they met one poorer and hungrier than themselves.  They always shared ... "

Sara gives her widow's mite.  She shares in her poverty because she is a princess. 

Imagination is a curious thing.  It is unique to humans.  With it we can perceive something beyond the concrete here and now.  Sara saw beyond her rags and the injustice of her condition.  Her imagination allowed her to infuse a supernatural purpose to everything she did.  It gave her strength and courage to be generous when giving truly hurt.  

Sara was a princess, a reality that became more brazenly obvious when it was disguised behind her beggar's apparel. 

But we are all royalty by our baptismal birthright.  God is King of Kings and we?  We are His sons and daughters--princes and princesses.  If we can imagine that ... if we can make that mental picture as vivid and powerful as Sara was able ... then how differently would we live our lives?  

Beyond my social class, profession, or possessions, would my actions, words, and disposition show me to be a daughter of the King?  

  

Lessons from The Hobbit

Far over the misty mountains cold

To dungeons deep and caverns old

We must away ere break of day

To seek the pale enchanted gold.

Mr. Bilbo Baggins, protagonist of Tolkien's novel The Hobbit, is involuntarily recruited to participate in an adventure.  He is not the adventuresome type (or, rather, he doesn't believe himself to be) and would much prefer the comfort of a second breakfast and his feather-bed.  Yet, to Bilbo's astonishment, he finds himself on a most unexpected and dangerous journey.

His companions are a company of twelve dwarves, the leader of which is Thorin Oakenshield.  Their destination is the Lonely Mountain, Thorin's homeland where the dwarves had long ago mined an underground home and crafted precious treasures of gold, silver, and gems.  Yet, all had been stolen from them: a fierce and terrifying dragon named Smaug took control of the mountain, killing and pillaging all in his path. 

The dwarves are now determined to reclaim their long lost treasure, even if it means risking their lives.

Past trolls, goblins, giant spiders, and wolves the dwarves and Bilbo persevere.  They journey through the dark and dreaded Mirkwood Forest.  And yet, as fearsome as these dangers are, they are nothing to be compared with what awaits them on the Lonely Mountain.

Indeed, Tolkien builds the suspense as the dwarves and Bilbo finally reach the desolation of Smaug, the ravaged territory claimed by him in which no one dares venture.  

It was a weary journey, and a quiet and stealthy one.  There was no laughter or song or sound of harps, and the pride and hopes which had stirred in their hearts at the singing of the old songs by the lake died away to a plodding gloom.  They knew that they were drawing near to the end of their journey, and that it might be a very horrible end.  The land about them grew bleak and barren, though once, as Thorin told them, it had been green and fair.  There was little grass, and before long there was neither brush nor tree, and only broken and blackened stumps to speak of ones long vanished.  They were coming to the Desolation of the Dragon ...

Bilbo, aided by the ring that makes him invisible, ventures alone down the dark tunnels of the mountain until he finds Smaug, fast asleep on a bed of gold and riches.  Enlisted as Burglar of the group, Bilbo fulfills his job responsibilities and seizes a goblet.  Returning to the dwarves, they are overjoyed at seeing a small portion of their treasure restored ... until Smaug awakens and immediately realizes that one of his prized possessions is absent.  

It seems the battle of all battles is begun.  The dwarves and Bilbo barely escape with their lives as they hide in an interior tunnel as Smaug smashes and obliterates the side of the mountain they had first entered.  Smaug then seeks vengeance on Lake-town, whose human residents had aided the dwarves.  And it is there that the loathsome dragon is actually shot and killed.

The plot had taken a most unexpected turn.  Tolkien had been very methodical in the unfolding of events.  Bilbo and the dwarves would alternate between danger and a period of safety and regrouping as they traversed the land.  It had been clear that Smaug was the biggest threat ... or was he?  I was a little let-down that Smaug had been destroyed so quickly.  Where was the battle?  Where was the all-consuming fire of the heinous beast?

What I had not foreseen was that the ultimate battle was a much greater one--more deadly than warfare with a scaled, winged reptile.  And the battlefield is interior.

Once Smaug absented himself, Bilbo and the dwarves explored the treasure.  Thorin in particular was searching for the Arkenstone, the most magnificent gem of all that was fashioned in the very heart of the mountain.  (Unbeknownst to him, Bilbo--in true burglar fashion--had earlier secretly pocketed the gem, considering it his promised portion of the wealth.)  

The dwarves were overjoyed to once again hold in their hands the precious objects that had been theirs long ago.  But something about touching the gold and having it in their grasp awakened certain desires and feelings ...

But also he did not reckon with the power that gold has upon which a dragon has long brooded, nor with dwarvish hearts.  Long hours in the past days Thorin had spent in the treasury, and the lust of it was heavy on him.  Though he had hunted chiefly for the Arkenstone, yet he had an eye for many another wonderful thing that was lying there, about which were wound old memories of the labours and the sorrows of his race.

Once Smaug is destroyed by the Lake-men, they come to the Lonely Mountain.  They want a portion of the treasure to help rebuild their homes, which had been destroyed by Smaug's wrath.  Their leader, the slayer of Smaug, also explains that a portion of the gold had long ago been promised to the city and rightfully belonged to them.

It was all very reasonable and just.  Distributing some of the wealth in such a way would still leave an outstanding amount in the hands of the dwarves.

Yet, Thorin rejects the requests and promises war upon any who seek his treasure.  He is King Under the Mountain and the gold belongs to him.

Tension mount and weapons are sharpened.  The battle is not with the dragon, but with those who should be allies and friends.  And it is all wildly spinning out of control because the interior battle inside Thorin's heart has been lost.

Greed and lust reign in the heart of him who could bring peace to a region that had long been plagued by Smaug.  

"For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil ... " (1 Timothy 6:10).

How often have we seen the destructive nature of money and the lure of wealth?  It divides families: money is the leading cause of disagreement in relationships.  How many celebrities, with a personal wealth in the millions, begin a downward spiral of destructive behavior?

The foil to Thorin is, of course, Bilbo.  When the party sets out from Bilbo's house as the narrative opens, it is Thorin who appears the leader.  He and the other dwarves complain about the burden Bilbo is to their group.  But as The Hobbit proceeds, Bilbo comes forward as the unexpected head of operations.  His cleverness and courage come to the dwarves' rescue multiple times.

And when Thorin is defeated by the love of money, Bilbo's simplicity is his defense.  The treasures in Bilbo's heart are not lofty, but they are precious.  His treasure is home with its green fields and hot tea kettle.  

Thus, when they are at the brink of war, Bilbo gives the prized Arkenstone to the Lake-men, in hopes it would be sufficient leverage to make peace with Thorin.  The hobbit forfeits his share in the treasure--his reward for the perilous quest--for a greater good.

Is it not a great wealth to be happy and content with little?

Tolkien's Middle Earth is, without a doubt, very different from our Earth.  However, the central battle of his novel is one being waged today.  How much do I value money?  Do I let it control and direct my life and actions?  Am I able to detach from what I possess and keep my heart centered on the much greater treasures in heaven?

If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.

Lessons from The Three Muskateers

Many might take for their device the epithet of strong, which formed the second part of his [Treville's] motto, but very few nobles could lay claim to the faithful, which constituted the first.  Treville was one of the latter.  His was one of those rare organizations, endowed with an obedient intelligence like that of the dog, with a blind valour, a quick eye, and a prompt hand.

Alexandre Dumas' classic The Three Muskateers follows the adventures of four--not three--men.  The protagonist is the bold, crafty, and ambitious D'Artagnan who aspires to the rank of muskateer.  Then there is the triad of men who comprise the three muskateers reflected in the book's title: Athos, the fatherly figure whose calm, collected wisdom guides the others; Aramis, who yearns to pursue once again his original calling--the priesthood; and Porthos, who is elegantly attired, physically dominating, and a bit slow on the uptake. 

These four, along with the other characters, each take a side in the political drama between the King of France (Louis XIII) and Cardinal Richelieu.  

Perhaps the best-known and most frequently quoted line from The Three Muskateers is D'Artagnan's statement, "All for one, one for all."  Indeed, it seems that loyalty and faithfulness are the virtues most highly treasured in the world of Dumas' historical romance.  

D'Artagnan and the three muskateers pledge their loyalty to the King and his Queen (even when the King himself will not protect her).  And this is how the first major conflict of the book unfolds.  

Queen Anne had given her diamond earrings as a loving token to her admirer, the English Duke of Buckingham.  The Cardinal, aware of this and seeking to embarrass the Queen, sets her up by prodding the King to request that she wear the exact earrings at a ball to be held in her honor.  The Queen desperately needs the earrings back in time or her romantic involvement with the Duke will be exposed.

D'Artagnan springs into action, along with the three muskateers who, without so much as hearing the purpose of the adventure, willingly risk their lives (and take the lives of others) to enable D'Artagnan to obtain the earrings back from the Duke.

This was precisely the point at which I seriously reconsidered my dedication to completing the novel.  

Loyalty is an outstanding virtue, but where should our loyalty ultimately lie?

"Yes," said he [the Duke of Buckingham], "yes, Anne of Austria is my true Queen; upon a word from her, I would betray my country, I would betray my King--I would betray my God."

It was difficult for me to rally behind D'Artagnan and the muskateers when their quest was based on loyalty to a Queen who was not loyal herself.  They were defending her honor, but how was she honorable?  She was defiling her marital vows by entanglement with another man--not to mention a man from enemy country.  

This carte blanche of faithfulness, when bestowed upon another (fallible) human, is not always virtue, but instead the opposite: a means of vice.  

Thankfully, the second half of the book was much more gripping and offered more gravitas than exploits involving a set of earrings.  Dumas introduces the principal villain: a stunningly beautiful woman and Cardinalist spy who goes by the alias of Milady.  She is a fascinating character: eerily malicious, vengeful, and master of deceit.

"You are not a woman," said Athos, coldly and sternly; "you do not belong to the human species: you are a demon escaped from hell..."

D'Artagnan becomes involved with her when, his romantic advances rejected, he poses as Milady's true lover and sleeps with her, under of pretense of being someone else.  The episode leads to D'Artagnan learning a condemning secret about Milady and her subsequent efforts to seek revenge.

Milady dreamed that she at length had d'Artagnan in her power, that she was present at his execution, and it was the sight of his odious blood, flowing beneath the axe of the executioner, which spread that charming smile upon her lips. 

What role does honor serve here?  D'Artagnan risks his life to protect the Queen's honor, yet he does not pause when he defaces Milady's honor by taking advantage of her in the worst way possible?  

It is one of many examples of the ambiguity and inconstancy of honor in The Three Muskateers.  But when you are not living by an overarching, unchanging timeless Truth...everything becomes ambiguous.  

In this romantic world Dumas has created, what is the end result of the faithfulness promised by the muskateers to each other?  What is the result when people pledge the ultimate loyalty to each other?

Dissolution.  It was a very somber ending.  The unity was broken, each muskateer going his own way.  

Faithfulness is best when grounded in the unchanging Faith.  

D'Artagnan lauded, "All for one, one for all!"  But perhaps the better refrain is simply: "All for One."  We owe our loyalty and faithfulness to God and through His light we can best see how to honor others.

Lessons from Sense and Sensibility

"Lucy does not want sense, and that is the foundation on which every good thing may be built..."

Sense and Sensibility, published in 1811, was Jane Austen's first published novel.  Austen wrote it when she was just nineteen years old.  

The novel focuses on two sisters: Elinor and Marianne Dashwood.  It is a story of their relationship, as much as it is of their various romantic entanglements and heartbreaks.  

With the title such as it is, it is tempting to quickly classify Elinor as "sense" (meaning prudent) and Marianne as "sensibility" (or emotional).  Yet, as I made my way through Austen's debut work, I was struck by the character of Elinor.  While governed by good judgement, Elinor was not lacking in emotions.  Rather, her sense aptly governed and guided her feelings--not stifling them, but keeping them controlled.  

To elaborate, Elinor, in my opinion, does not fit the dichotomy of sense only; she feels the whole range of emotions, too.  And it is the precisely the fact that she does experience such ardent feelings--and still keeps her passions checked--that makes her a heroine.  

Mrs. Dashwood is a woman very much driven by emotion, a trait Marianne inherits.  Finding herself between two emotional women, Elinor assumes the office of practicality (not a very rewarding job) and continually checks both of them in their fervor.  

Elinor, this eldest daughter whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother...She had an excellent heart;--her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern them...

Elinor begins to develop feelings for Mr. Edward Ferrars and Marianne is quick to confront her about them.

"I do not attempt to deny," said she [Elinor], "that I think very highly of him--that I greatly esteem him, that I like him."

Marianne here burst forth with indignation--

"Esteem him!  Like him!  Cold-hearted Elinor!  Oh! worse than cold-hearted!  Ashamed of being otherwise.  Use those words again and I will leave the room this moment."

Marianne labels Elinor "cold-hearted" for her caution in her emotions toward Edward.  Elinor, not certain of how reciprocal the feelings were, would go no further in encouraging her heart.  To Marianne, however, this was near blasphemy.  How could love be measured or careful?  How could proper social etiquette check the ardor of love? 

When she falls in love with dashing Willoughby, Marianne has no reserve.  She gives her whole heart to him, holding nothing back.  

When he was present she had eyes for no any one else.  Every thing he did, was right.  Everything he said, was clever.  If their evenings at the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest of the party to get her a good hand.  If dancing formed the amusement of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and scarcely spoke a word to any body else.  Such conduct made them of course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and seemed hardly to provoke them. 

Elinor, in her sense, seeks concrete evidence of the integrity of Willoughby's apparent devotion to Marianne.  Feelings are not enough; there must be action, commitment, the practical steps that speak love just as loud as words or romantic gestures.  Was there an engagement?  Had Willoughby pledged his life to Marianne, or was he playing with her open, unguarded heart?

When Willoughby leaves abruptly and later reveals he is engaged to another (more affluent) woman, Marianne is thrown into the depths of despair.  The fervency of her attachment is felt equally in her separation from Willoughby.  As she previously had had eyes and conversation for no one but him, she now equally remains aloof and dismal, her despondency governing all her actions and thoughts.

Yet, Marianne is not the only to endure heartbreak.  Elinor learns that Edward has been secretly engaged, a commitment he cannot break though it was entered into many years prior and he does not love his betrothed.  Elinor was sworn to keep this knowledge confidential and thus must bear her sorrow and heartbreak silently and alone.  

From their [her mother and Marianne] counsel or their conversation she knew she could receive no assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress, while her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their example nor from their praise.  She was stronger alone, and her own good sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.

Elinor's emotions are not outwardly noticeable: they cannot be, as she is sworn to secrecy.  Thus, she must keep the conversation going when Marianne silently stares out the window.  She must smile when Marianne frowns.  And when Elinor eventually is able to disclose Edward's engagement, it is she who must comfort Marianne, who is overwhelmed with horror and grief at the news.

Elinor was to be the comforter of others in her own distress, no less than in theirs...

Elinor could be aptly commended for being a person of sense.  But I think her greatest attribute is conducting herself with poise, strength, and courage when simultaneously feeling the same--arguably, stronger--emotions than Marianne.  Consider that Marianne bore her own grief; Elinor carried sadness for both of them ... and could still smile when necessary.

To classify Elinor as unfeeling, uptight, and stuffy who is all prim and proper without passion is to do a great injustice to Austen's character.  Between Elizabeth Bennett, Emma Woodhouse, Anne Elliot, Fanny Price, and Elinor Dashwood, it is Elinor that I admire the most.  Her strength of character under great duress is incredible and, while her mind governs her passions, she simultaneously has a heart that generously loves--loves her man of interest, her sister, and, indeed, even her enemies.

Elinor is sensibility, governed by sense.  And that is the best one could be.

Lessons from The Robe

If you believed that Jesus' supernormal power could heal the physical and mental sickness of those who merely touched his Robe, by what reasoning do you disbelieve that he could still a storm?  Once you impute to him supernormal power, what kind of impertinence consents to your drawing up an itemized list of the peculiar things he can and cannot do?  Yet this storm story was too, too much! ... This is an inanimate, insensible tempest!  No human being--however persuasive--could still a storm!  Concede Jesus that power, and you admit that he was divine!

Lloyd C. Douglas, a Lutheran minister, wrote The Robe in 1942.  It enjoyed immediate, widespread success, holding the number one spot on the New York Times Best Seller List for more than one year.  It was later made into a motion picture in 1953.

The robe from which the novel derives its title is the simple, seamless piece of apparel that belonged to Christ.  It falls into the possession of tribune Marcellus Gallio, who wins it while gambling with the other Roman soldiers at the foot of the cross.  Marcellus, in charge of the crucifixion of Jesus, is disturbed by the deed, especially when he realizes that he has put to death an innocent man. 

Later that day, at a banquet hosted by Pontius Pilate, a depressed Marcellus is cajoled into donning the dead Galilean's robe in a display of mockery.  He reluctantly does so and immediately is overcome with a mental paralysis.  He blankly asks of those around him, "Were you out there?" as the scene at Golgotha haunts him.

Aided by his loyal Greek slave, Demetrius, Marcellus seeks to recuperate in Athens, but is driven near to suicide.  At the last moment, it is the Robe itself that heals Marcellus: laying his hands upon the Robe restores his peace of mind and heart.  

Yesterday afternoon, its touch had healed his wounded mind.  How was he to evaluate this astonishing fact?  Perhaps it was more simple than it seemed: perhaps he was making it all too difficult.  He had shrunk from this Robe because it symbolized his great mistake and misfortune.  Now--compelled by a desperate circumstance to lay his hands upon the Robe--his obsession had vanished!  Was this effect purely subjective--or was the Robe actually possessed of magical power!

The act of carrying out a death sentence is enough to cause a nervous breakdown...but why was it only after putting on the Robe?  And how could the same Robe later fully restore him?  Marcellus is at a loss and undertakes a mission to Jerusalem and Galilee to learn more about this Jesus.

The bulk of the novel follows Marcellus' journey to faith.  Along the way he meets some of the apostles and recipients of Christ's healing power--including the woman with the bleeding who merely touched Christ's Robe and was healed.  At first Marcellus accepts Jesus as a wise teacher and new kind of leader who could usher in a kingdom of peace and brotherhood, so unlike the Roman Empire.  

But how to explain these miracles?  He himself experienced the power of the Robe.  He could not deny his own inexplicable healing.  Where does one draw a line...can you draw a line?  If Jesus can physically heal people, why not tame the tempest?  And if He can calm the wind and waves, what else must He be but divine?  

Marcellus is gradually led into greater knowledge of Christ: teacher, healer, savior.  For a long time, Marcellus assumes that Chris is dead; indeed, why would he think otherwise?  Then as his understanding and acceptance deepen, the Christians inform him: Christ is alive! 

We know Christ's story.  In some ways, the familiarity of that story is a danger.  At times, I forget how astounding it is.  A person, dead in a tomb...resurrected!  God killed on a cross and alive once again.  Marcellus' baulking at the incredibleness of it was refreshing.  

It is a reminder of His presence, too.  The Robe is a story about the person of Christ and how His presence changed people--sanctified and redeemed them.  These were people who sat with Him, heard His voice, broke bread with Him, got into a fishing boat with Him...  

How powerful the personality, the aura of Christ!  When Chris and I were on our honeymoon, we were blessed to meet the Prelate Bishop of Opus Dei, Javier Echevarria (may his soul rest in peace).  When he walked into the room, I immediately felt something.  I could feel the grace emanating from him.  His presence was powerful; he radiated Christ.  I can only imagine the effect Christ Himself had on those He saw and touched and spoke to.  Well, we know, don't we?  They left everything...everything...to follow Him.

Simon Peter asks Marcellus how he knew Jesus.  Marcellus' succinct reply: "I crucified him."  In the end, Marcellus pays his debt: he gives his life for Christ, witnessing to the Christian faith before the emperor.  Once he had faith, he had to act upon it, even if it meant martyrdom.  

As I typed my notes in preparing to write this post, I reflected that Douglas had to end his novel this way.  Marcellus crucified Christ; in return, Marcellus gives up his earthly life for Christ.  Then it struck me: I crucified Christ.  My sins were the nails driven into his flesh and the sword that struck His side.  It was me.  And in a sense, I--baptized, raised in the faith, recipient of sacramental grace--have much more culpability in knowingly committing my sins than Marcellus who was ignorantly following a command.  

I have a debt to pay.  

The Emperor Tiberius comments about the Christians:

 'There's more than one kind of courage, my child,' he soliloquized, 'and the most potent of all is the reckless bravery of people who have nothing to lose.' 

Am I that brave?  Am I ready to die for Christ?  If I truly know Him in the deep, intimately personal way that the apostles did--then what is there to lose?

I believe Lord!  Help my unbelief!

Lessons from Shadows on the Rock

If the Count should go back with the ships next summer, and her father with him, how could she bear it, she wondered.  On a foreign shore, in a foreign city (yes, for her a foreign shore), would not her heart break for just this?  For this rock and this winter, this feeling of being in one's own place, for the soft content of pulling Jacques up Holy Family Hill into paler and paler levels of blue air, like a diver coming up from the deep sea. 

Willa Cather wrote Shadows on the Rock just four years after Death Comes for the Archbishop.  In some ways, the novels are quite similar: both are works of historical fiction that include real people as characters.  They also are written in Cather's distinct style, which lacks one unified, driving plot with conflict and resolution; instead, Cather focuses on short vignettes with strong characterization that bring her figures to life.

The works couldn't be more different, however, in their setting.  While Death Comes for the Archbishop is set in the American southwest in the 19th century, Shadows on the Rock's setting is Quebec, 1697. 

And what a setting it is!

It is amazing how Cather, having never lived in the late 17th century or in New France, can bring the French colony there to life in so many vivid details.  She must have meticulously studied the time period to recreate it so stunningly in her book.  I have never traveled to Quebec, but after reading Cather's novel, I feel as though I have just returned home from a trip there.  One can see the landscape of mountains of pine, feel the icy cold of a Quebec winter, hear the clanging of the Cathedral bell echoing through the night air...

When the sun had almost sunk behind the black ridges of the western forest, Cecile and Jacques sat down on the Cathedral steps to eat their gouter...Now they had the hill to themselves,--and this was the most beautiful part of the afternoon.  They thought they would like to go down once more.  With a quick push-off their sled shot down through constantly changing colour; deeper and deeper into violet, blue, purple, until at the bottom it was almost black.  As they climbed up again, they watched the last flames of orange light burn off the high points of the rock. 

Cather follows a year in the lives of Euclide Auclair and his daughter, Cecile.  Euclide is an apothecary and has come to Quebec in the service of the governor, Count de Frontenac.  A widower, he and his daughter have settled themselves into a warm, welcoming home--indeed, Quebec, so far and so different from their native land, has become their home.  

The book opens with Euclide watching the ships sail away on their return journey to France.  It is autumn in Quebec and they will have no news until June when the ships return.  Communication has ceased and one realizes the great vastness of space and distance that separated the French colonists from their fellow Frenchmen.  In the wilderness of pine that surround them, they cling to the rock of Quebec where they have made a home.  

Why, the priest wondered, were these fellows always glad to get back to Kebec?  Why did they come at all?  Why should this particular cliff in the wilderness be echoing tonight with French songs, answering to the French tongue?  He recalled certain naked islands in the Gulf of the St. Lawrence; mere ledges of rock standing up a little out of the sea, where the sea birds came every year to lay their eggs and rear their young in the caves and hollows... This headland was scarcely more than that; a crag where for some reason human beings built themselves nests in the rock, and held fast.

They cling to the rock ... and to the Rock--to the Church.  It is the Church that directs and guides of lives of the French colonists.  Cecile and her father have brought a creche from France, which Cecile excitedly displays on Christmas Eve.  Her friend, Jacques, brings a gift for the infant Jesus in the manger: a beaver, carved out of wood.  The beaver in the creche is the Catholic faith, brought to New France.  

The North American martyrs and some of their stories appear in Shadows on the Rock.  Their courageous example and the vibrant faith of those who followed them are some of the most powerful passages.  Cather writes about the elderly bishop Laval, who finds young Jacques, searching about the empty night streets for his mother (a prostitute).  The bishop takes the abandoned boy into his residence, has him bathed and rests Jacque in his own bed.  

She [Cecile] always felt a kind of majesty in his grimness and poverty.  Seventy-four years of age and much crippled by his infirmities, going about in a rusty old cassock, he yet commanded one's admiration in a way that the new Bishop, with all his personal elegance, did not.  One believed in his consecration, in some special authority own from fasting and penances and prayer; it was in his face, in his shoulders, it was he.

"It was he."  What a powerful line!  The power was his presence, of the grace and piety that authentically flowed out from him.  Come to find out, Bishop Laval is one of the many historical figures who appear in the book--Pope Francis canonized him 2014!

In another memorable vignette, Cecile and her father are paid a visit by a woodsman who works in the fur trade.  He recounts a harrowing experience of traveling through a massive snowstorm with a priest, in an effort to reach his dying brother.  

"Before daylight the wind died, but the cold was so bitter we had to move or freeze.  It was good snowshoeing that day, but with empty bellies and thirst and eating snow, we both had colic.  That night we ate the last of our lard.  I wasn't sure we were going right,--the snow had changed the look of everything.  When Father Hector took off the little box he carried that held the Blessed Sacrament, I said: 'Maybe that will do for us two, Father.  I don't see much ahead of us.'

'Never fear, Antoine,' says he, 'while we carry that, Someone is watching over us...'"

Not all of the stories are of canonized saints or life-or-death ventures through the wilderness.  Many are just the ordinary details of day-to-day life--timeless feelings and experiences: a sense of home and rootedness, the order of routine and familiarity.  One of my favorite passages from the book is when Cecile goes on a small trip to visit Ile d'Orleans.  While initially excited about the adventure beyond Quebec, Cecile finds herself homesick and longing for the comfortable familiarity of her father and own bed.

She lay still and stiff on the very edge of the feather bed, until the children were asleep and she could hear the smith and his wife snoring in the next room...Cecile got up very softly and dressed carefully in the dark.  There was only one window in the room, and that was shut tight to keep out mosquitos.  She sat down beside it and watched the moon come up,--the same moon that was shining down on the rock of Kebec.  Perhaps her father was taking his walk on Cap Diamant, and was looking up the river at the Ile d'Orleans and thinking of her.  She began to cry quietly.  She thought a great deal about her mother, too, that night; how her mother had always made everything at home beautiful, just as here everything about cooking, eating, sleeping, living, seemed repulsive.

I remember with such clarity sleeping over at a friend's house and, like Cecile, gazing out the bedroom window while my friend peacefully slept.  All I could think about was the feeling of my own home and family.  No matter that this friend lived only about five minutes away; I missed everything about home.  

Characters and their stories come in and out of the Auclairs' life in the course of the year.  What is lacking in typical plot in Shadows on the Rock is made up for in the powerful resonance of the stories and images presented.  

Quebec in 1697 is so very distant from 2017.  But Cather makes it real, pertinent, and even familiar.  It is her writing, yes.  And it is also that Quebec was built on the Rock that still is strong today, whatever new world one may be exploring: you can still find home in the Church, which directs, protects, and guides our lives.

Cecile did not always waken at the first bell, which rang in the coldest hour of the night, but when she did, she felt a peculiar sense of security, as if there must be powerful protection for Kebec in such steadfastness, and the new day, which was yet darkness, was beginning as it should.  The punctual bell and the stern old Bishop who rang it began an orderly procession of activities and held life together on the rock, though the winds lashed it and the billows of snow drove over it.